<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>True dark is the knowledge that the flames will burn higher by por_queeee</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29698071">True dark is the knowledge that the flames will burn higher</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/por_queeee/pseuds/por_queeee'>por_queeee</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>True Dark [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror - Dan Simmons</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alcohol Withdrawal, Basically the aftermath of enemies to lovers, Blow Jobs, Canon Rewrite, During Canon, First Time, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Oral Sex, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, bi francis</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 06:40:56</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,912</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29698071</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/por_queeee/pseuds/por_queeee</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>James is at the corner of the desk closest to Francis, looking down at the thinning head of hair.  His pulse comes quickly, nerves fluttering.  They are at the ends of the earth and it emboldens him, the thought of a court martial, a hanging, so far from them here.</i>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>  <i>“Do you remember that you called me beautiful?”  He asks before he can change his mind.</i></p><p> </p><p>  <i>An incremental nod, and the absence of eye contact. “I - thought I had recalled. Something to that effect.”</i><br/>------</p><p>James makes a second visit to his First near the end of Francis's withdrawal, seeking comfort and clarity. Things happen. Part 2 of my True Dark series, on-going.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Francis Crozier/James Fitzjames</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>True Dark [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2182473</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>57</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>True dark is the knowledge that the flames will burn higher</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Decided to continue this as a series rather than a chapter fic, as I think <i>Darkness is a light from a city on fire</i> stands well on its own as a T rated fic. But I couldn't avoid some form of consummation happening, because I am an unabashed Fitzier Longing Sex devotee. </p><p>As always, unbeta'd so please leave a little lee-way for writer error and give me a holler in the comments if you see anything glaring. And feel free to follow / interact with me on Tumblr at my shipping blog, https://porqueeee.tumblr.com/</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Come in,” is the tired reply James receives when he raps twice on the door to Terror’s Great Cabin. Jopson has already divested him of his great coat and slops, fussing like a nervous matron, afraid to scare away an aged daughter’s only suitor.</p><p>James had looked between the steward and the door he guarded with questioning brows. “He told me if you came again - to send you in,” was Jopson’s reply, offered with a small bow of his head.<br/>
<br/>
James takes this to mean that Francis had not given the Steward too much of a dressing down for allowing him through on the last visit. <em> Though what Francis remembers saying or doing... </em> His thumb twitches to rub nervously at a knuckle on the same hand where he’d felt the wet slide of tongue as he steps in, closing the door behind him.<br/>
<br/>
He looks carefully around the dim room, as if he has not seen the cabinets of books and charts  a thousand times.  He looks anywhere but at Francis. The room is dark but for a few lamps and the pale arctic moonlight shining through the windows, for reasons James can easily guess. Just because Francis is up and about in a nominal fashion does not mean he is fully through the woods.</p><p>“Your absence is noted by the men,” He begins, finding himself too tired and uncertain to muster a proper greeting.   “Is your convalescence nearly over?”<br/>
<br/>
Francis snorts in dismissal. “The ten men left to me, you mean? I  think they should be fine under your command, for a few days more.”  James’ turns his head in alarm at the clink of a glass from Francis’s direction.  But it is only a tumbler of water Francis toys with, slouched at his desk with a book spread open before him. James closes his eyes momentarily  in relief and gathers himself before turning fully to approach his fellow Captain where he sits.<br/>
<br/>
“The Terrors aboard Erebus are still your men as well- and do you realize there are still things which need doing?  I’m left trying desperately to keep these men’s morale up - to avoid a mutiny after what transpired aboard <em> Terror, </em>with them convinced the Netsilik girl is out there biding her time-” Francis’ eyes flash up, but still there is not the usual fire there. Only fatigue. “There are inventories to be done; measurements to be taken; preparations to be made.”</p><p>“You are more than capable of those things yourself,” Francis rasps after a pregnant pause. He nods at the chair across from him, and James sinks into it without another word.   “I am sorry, James. This is - necessary. I would do more harm than good, being present as I was.  Or rather, as I am.”</p><p>James sighs, but does not deny the statement. Francis, deep in drink, was not the Captain he was when they’d still been on water rather than ice.  It enraged him before, but after the pitiful sight of him in his bunk last week - the soft words he had murmured - his rage is a fire burned low to embers, and replaced only with regret, and shame to have seen Francis at perhaps his lowest.  James hopes fervently to never see the man worse, at least.</p><p>“Preparations, you said,” Francis says it as a question, bringing his hand up to rake his hair back. </p><p>“Yes. To depart on foot - towards Fort Resolution, overland.” He raises his eyes to meet Francis’s. He leaves the intended <em> you were right - even in your drunken madness, you were right </em>, unsaid. “Though hopefully the returned scouting party will meet us with help along the way.”</p><p>Francis nods, slowly, then seems to wince, bringing a few fingers to his temple. “Do the - the ah, men know?”</p><p>He shakes his head. “Not as of yet. I have had some - counsel from our Mr. Blanky. A little soiree to bolster their spirits, first. And I was hoping that my First would be present for such an announcement.”</p><p>No comment. Again, Francis barely seems able to process what he is saying, though he is inarguably more present than at James’ last visit.  Again he thinks he catches a gentle nod from the other man.<br/>
<br/>
Francis exhales deeply. “Yes, good. I’ll - I’m on the mend. I’ll be fit to help you soon.”<br/>
<br/>
He tries to put on a smile.  “No ‘I told you, James you fop? <em> ’ </em> You really aren’t yourself, Francis.” He says it good-naturedly, leaning back in his chair to cross his arms. He is inviting a jab from Francis, really, to diffuse the tension that still hangs in the air.</p><p>Francis looks up at him from beneath the fingers with which he massages his head. “I think you’ll find I am - less inclined to needle, when sober.” Softer, “I am just glad we are in agreement. I hope that we are more united on things, going forward.  Though I’d also wish to… Not disparage you from sharing your opinions with me, in the future. ”<br/>
<br/>
James is slightly shocked at Francis’s candor. Even when walking crooked, the man had been loath to admit any power the drink had on him. Still, James knows it was not simply whiskey that raised Francis’s hackles whenever he entered the wardroom.  He has enough tact, however, not to question the olive branch offered to him here.<br/>
<br/>
“I’d like that as well,” he says softly, searching Francis’s face, whose eyes have fallen closed, leaned back deep in his chair with the lamp-light playing off his features.  He still looks undeniably sallow; though his hair is freshly combed, his shirt collar is turned up unevenly to one side, clearly no stock beneath it, the edge of a woolen undershirt peeking from beneath. Jopson must not have been in for a while or he’d have an apoplectic fit. </p><p>Then more firmly, cursing at his own awkward pause he adds, “For the good of the men.”</p><p>They sit in silence for a while, neither broaching the subject of why James has come so late in the evening in the dark again, alone.  Francis slits his eyes and surveys him as he asks “Care for a drink?”</p><p>“A drink? Francis you - “</p><p>Francis waves a hand to calm him “for you, not I. Jopson would have to fetch it for you. I’ve no idea where the bottles have been hid.” The bottles that had come from James’ personal store. “I assure you I am for the most part at the point where the thought of anything but water passing my lips sets my insides trembling. That includes the blasted rations Jopson persists in bringin me, as well. Though, you will need to promise not to - well, do not leave me alone with it. That’s all.”</p><p>“Ah. Well-” he clears his throat. “No, thank you. I had a drink before departing <em> Erebus </em>.” Just as before, James had needed the extra strength offered by a glass of brandy before he could come and face Francis. </p><p>“Looking to take up my mantle as the expedition lush?” Francis jokes wryly, toying with the water glass on his desk with one hand. “No, I suppose not. You’re not as desperate to prove yourself an Irish stereotype as I apparently am.”  His tone drips with a tired sort of self-loathing.</p><p>“Francis -” James leans forward onto his elbows, across the desk from the other man. “Every man is prone to - weakness. Somewhere, sometimes. Just because I have not struggled with drink does not mean I do not have my own… Demons.” His face is hot, saying it, although he does not specifically mean this unspoken thing with Francis, nor his predilection for his own sex. More that shapeless thing that people tend to mistake for vanity in him - a desperate need to please, to prove himself. To make himself unimpeachable, the picture of a British man and Naval Officer, someone that can not be refused or discarded.</p><p>He turns his eyes towards the desk, spreading his hands out on the polished wood and gently drumming his fingers before he continues. “ I think, Francis, that you did not know how to react - a man of the sea, without a ship that he can sail. I will not pretend you have not been - indecorous - in your responses to Sir John and I,  though I admit freely we ignored the sound advice you gave. But I have been thinking - I can <em> see </em> , that you turned to your vice in response to it all. I do not fault you for your weakness, not now that you are past it.”<br/>
<br/>
He glances up to see how this is received, and finds that Francis stares at him quietly, thoughtfully. His hand has fallen from his temple, his fingers now over his lips.  “Well.  You do yourself credit, more than me, by choosing to see my foibles in that light. But thank you all the same. Though I... fear I don’t warrant such understanding.”<br/>
<br/>
It is heart-breaking to see the morose loneliness in Francis’ eyes. Even now he is an island unto himself, and where the drink gave him righteous anger its absence has left his underlying despair exposed plainly. James skims the inside of his lip with his tongue thoughtfully, considering, then stands. </p><p>“Tell me, Francis - you directed Jopson to admit me freely, if I visited again. Though as I understand, you still take no other visitors, nor offer input to your men. Why give me this liberty?”<br/>
<br/>
Francis looks up at him, somewhat startled. His pale cheeks tinge pink. “To- to apologize, I suppose. It was good of you to visit me, before.”</p><p>“So you remember?” James says, stepping round the desk. One hand trails along its top, less in coquettishness and more to keep himself aright.  The pulse of the brandy in his blood does nothing to help his balance as he navigates the tilted deck of <em> Terror </em> .<br/>
<br/>
Francis’s lips part, enough to see the gap in his upper teeth momentarily- obscured quickly by a thoughtful lick of his lips, eyes flicking askance. “I-- Yes. Somewhat. I remember that I had asked that you visit, again. So it seemed only proper to - to tell Jopson to expect you.”<br/>
<br/>
James is at the corner of the desk closest to Francis, looking down at the thinning head of hair.  His pulse comes quickly, nerves fluttering.  They are at the ends of the earth and it emboldens him, the thought of a court martial, a hanging, so far from them here.</p><p>“Do you remember that you called me beautiful?”  He asks before he can change his mind.</p><p>An incremental nod, and the absence of eye contact. “I - thought I had recalled. Something to that effect.”<br/>
<br/>
He does not stop his slow advance again until he is directly next to Francis, who finally looks up, into his face. He feels a giddy anxiety, heart beating like a metronome, steadily, insistently. “And do you remember . . .” </p><p>Gods but he can’t even bring himself to voice it. Kissing his hand - that could be dismissed perhaps as sentiment, desperation for comfort from a man unwell and so far from home. But that gentle<em> lick </em> , like a cat testing the skin of its owner. <em> That </em> is harder to square.<br/>
<br/>
“Well, rather. Did you mean it?” He asks instead, voice low, trusting that question alone to carry the weight of the other things like a trojan horse for his foolish desires.</p><p>Francis’s eyes flash down to James feet, then back to his face, cheeks flushed. There is a kind of desolation in his gaze.   “I did.” Then more quietly, the gentle rasp of Francis’s voice sending shivers through James’ spine. “I do.” He swallows. “Anyone would.”</p><p>James knows Francis is still not well, from the fatigue present in his voice this entire conversation, from the way he lets the chair support him bonelessly, from the glassiness of the cold blue eyes.  But he is impatient and breathless, choked by what Francis has said and the weight of these two ships and their men, crushing the air from him each day, breaking his back with the wordless knowledge that he is perhaps the cause of much death here. Had he only supported Francis’s case earlier, to Sir John, had only aside his own vanity and brashess.</p><p>And so he takes the last step in his search for relief from this crushing guilt, the toes of their boots meeting.  Francis is looking up at him with broken fear.  “Francis,” he breathes, going to one knee, and - he can’t quite bring himself to kiss him, after a lifetime of hiding himself.<br/>
<br/>
So instead he takes Francis’s hand, which is shaking (whether from the lack of drink, or James’ presence he does not know) and brings it to his lips, pressing them to the same spot in a mirror of what Francis had done.  There is a sharp exhale above him, Francis’s hand gripping back at his wrist desperately “James-”<br/>
<br/>
“Do you remember doing this, for me?” James asks finally, swallowing, looking up through his lashes. The floor is cold and hard against his knee and he grounds himself there.  Francis hesitates, then shakes his head mutely.<br/>
<br/>
“Ah.  All the same, I-- have desperately wanted to return the gesture.” His heart pounds, from nerves, he supposes.  He has never felt so affected when propositioning other men he has been with, has always been more certain of their returned attentions from shared looks and errant touches.  With Francis - the man had licked his damned hand and still he felt he knew not where he stood, exactly.  “Is that alright?”<br/>
<br/>
A small, jerky nod. He has not lowered Francis’s hand, and he extends his tongue, slowly, testingly, and presses it to where he feels the swell of extensor tendons. He does not taste Francis, really, as he expected he might - only cold skin on his tongue, smooth.<br/>
<br/>
Francis jerks, and suddenly his free hand is at James’s neck, pulling his face up, leaned down to crush their lips together. James can not restrain a moan, overwhelmed by the reality of this thing he has imagined now that it is made real, having turned it over and over again in his head these past weeks.<br/>
<br/>
And how could he have known how hot but dry Francis’s lips would be, how their noses would bump together clumsily at first, both trying to turn their heads in desperation for full contact, how he would smell the salt of the sweats Francis has gone through underlaid by the gentler scent of paper. He is leant forward, on both knees now to better access Francis’s mouth, hands moved to grip at the sides of the chair so that his arms frame Francis tentatively.  Though their mouths are not yet open, his tongue flexes in his own mouth in anticipation.</p><p>He breaks away, breathes in. “You’re still not well,” he says, and it is as much a statement as a request for permission to continue because - because he can feel himself stiff in his pants, and he needs the reminder not to try for more than Francis can or would give.<br/>
<br/>
“Better, now.” Francis says, with blazing cheeks, looking down at him with wonder. “Christ, James.” More of his brogue creeps through than is typical and James swallows.  “You can’t possibly want- want-”<br/>
<br/>
The evidence of Francis’ own ardour is quite visible to James at this angle, and he finds his confidence bolstered. “You?” James asks, gripping the arms of Francis’s chair, inching forward between the other man’s legs, pressing their foreheads together.  “Yes, Francis. Gods, yes.” His eyes flutter closed. “If you… If it won’t make you sick.”<br/>
<br/>
Francis barks a laugh. “Make me <em> sick” </em> he says incredulously, skating a hand over James’s shoulder.  As if Jopson hasn’t been cleaning his vomit up these past weeks, a fact James is well aware of.  But there is no scent of it now and he finds that he wants the other man’s lips back all the same-aAnd they are kissing again, and this time James dares to part his lips, finding Francis’s open above him. Francis’s hand is up, tangled in his hair, pulling him closer and closer until he is cantilevered on the toes of his boots to lean over the older man.</p><p>“What do you want,” he pants, his cheek pressed to Francis’s.  “I would give it, freely. Anything.” He feels he will shake apart, should Francis let him go. </p><p>“Be careful what you offer to a man like me, James.” Francis murmurs, gripping at his arms. “I find it hard to resist taking all I can.”<br/>
<br/>
James whines, actually whines high in his throat damn it -- and though it is a tight fit he puts a leg over Francis, then the other, til he is wholly in his lap and the chair creaks beneath their weight. “Then have it,” he hisses. “Please.”</p><p>It is an awkward angle, to press himself down and back to where Francis is slumped, to rut through their layers of clothing. Francis’s hands grab at him, desperate but uncertain, as if he can not decide where to touch - first slide up beneath his jacket, then to palm at his hip, his chest, to slide fingers over his neck above his cravat.<br/>
<br/>
Francis groans and slams his head back suddenly into the chair.  “Damn it,” he grunts.  “Damn, damn, damn.”<br/>
<br/>
James pauses, and Francis looks up at him in apology, tense.  “It is just - my damned head. And I’m -” he looks down, abashed.  “Rather sore, still.”</p><p>James immediately retreats, moves backwards off of the older man - one hand still braced on his shoulder. “I’m - sorry, I-- Careless--”<br/>
<br/>
Francis shakes his head desperately, grabbing him by the wrist. “Please don’t go, James,”  It is an echo of James’s last visit and he freezes. "I did not mean-. I meant only that- I do not know that I can give you what you want, in this state."<br/>
<br/>
He looks so genuinely torn that James feels a sudden wash of tenderness for the man.  He takes back his wrist gingerly, yet the motion still causes momentary panic in Francis’s eyes.<br/>
<br/>
He attempts a conversational tone. “Tell me Francis, have you washed today?” </p><p>“Have I -- Yes, I have <em> washed.” </em>He hisses petulantly. “If only to keep Jopson from coming in to scrub me down again himself, as if I’m some invalid pensioner…” </p><p>James’s lips twitch in amusement.  “Well, then.”  When he sinks to the ground this time he presses his hands to Francis’s knees, parting them further and moving forward to fill the space with his torso in a form of supplication he would give freely. “You say you can not give to <em> me </em> - are you well enough, then, that I can care for <em> you </em>?”</p><p>He looks up through his lashes and slides one hand up Francis’s thigh, feels the muscle beneath the cloth tense as Francis’s lips fall open.</p><p>“Well Francis?” He asks lowly. He can see protest forming, and adds quickly. “I should like to  - at least this.  If it will not pain you.”  He finds his voice small.  “I would in fact like it very much.”</p><p>There is a strangled noise from above, and Francis’s eyes are wider than he thinks he has ever seen as he gives a single nod of assent, and James’s fingers fly to their work.<br/>
<br/>
It is a process, to move back the fly front and start at the buttons of the trouser placket, but James has always had clever fingers and feigns ignorance of Francis’s hands trembling at the arms of the chair.<br/>
<br/>
“James…” Francis mutters, and Francis is so hard and James wants to- get to him, to prove his affections, before he loses the chance, knowing Jopson will not let another soul beyond the door in Francis’s current condition, desperate to touch skin now that he has tasted of Francis’s mouth.</p><p>Francis does not move a muscle as James grabs at his long linen shirt and the wool layer beneath, rucking them up out of the way to fully reveal Francis.  He hums in satisfaction, and before Francis can make any protest ducks his head eagerly to take the first few inches.<br/>
<br/>
A startled cry and a hand to his hair.  Francis’s cock is flushed red like the man himself, and James may be quite out of practice at this but he is eager as well, one hand coming to circle Francis’s base, knuckles brushing fair, dense hair. Francis chokes.<br/>
<br/>
“Jesus christ--” James looks up as much as he can, to meet Francis’s gaze.</p><p>“It’s good?” He asks teasingly, lips moving just enough away to speak before returning to their work. Francis nods desperately.  </p><p>“Yes but you could -<em> God - </em> warn a man, first-”<br/>
<br/>
James’ disbelieving laugh is muffled by the cock in his mouth, which he removes briefly to reply- Francis’s hips stuttering up in protest- “I would think spending the last several minutes on my knees just getting the thing <em> out </em> should be appropriate preparation.”<br/>
<br/>
Francis reddens. “I didn’t.  Didn’t know what you would do, exactly.”</p><p>James’s eyebrows shoot up.  He withdraws to kiss at the crease of Francis’s thigh, a hand moving up the man’s side, slipping under his right bracer as he works him with his other hand.  “You can’t tell me that you’ve never…” He looks down.  “Well, had a man’s <em> mouth </em> , before.”<br/>
<br/>
Francis is bright, bright red now and it feels almost like he vibrates wherever James touches- James wonders if there is still some fever or if it is just the man’s Irish coloration.  He murmurs something.<br/>
<br/>
“What was that?” He twists at the end of a stroke, bites at a thigh through Francis’s trousers.</p><p>“Not a <em> man’s” </em> Francis almost whispers, and James freezes for just a moment, looking up to search Francis’s face. He looks acutely embarrassed, balanced on a precipice from which James is afraid to knock him with a misplaced joke or any further questions at Francis’s experience with his own sex.<br/>
<br/>
He nods as if it were a moot point, pointedly not thinking of Miss Cracroft and what had or had not been done back in England.  “Well, rest assured, it works much the same.” He settles on returning his mouth as demonstration, eliciting a rather colorful curse involving christ, the cross, and a few other words he does not make out as Francis clutches at him again.</p><p><br/>
It is a bit of a strain on his neck, working at Francis like this, but the radiating heat in his face, the taste of another man’s most delicate skin, it is so addicting after the years they have been here, the years he has been alone in this most intimate sense.  At this angle there is no denying his extra fatigue lately, an extra soreness in his bones he is trying to convince himself is due to age - due to the cold climes - the lack of sun.  Yet he finds he can push any discomfort aside, burrowed between Francis’s thighs, listening to the heavy pants above him.<br/>
<br/>
“Oh, James-” Francis’s voice breaks, and his fingers tremble where they thread in his hair, alternating between gripping and petting at his locks. He hums in reply, too desperate to undo his own trouser buttons and free himself, settling instead at palming through the thick layers of fabric with one hand as his other continues to assist his ministrations.  </p><p>“Look at you, just look at you- I want- not-”<br/>
<br/>
He wants to ask <em> What do you want, Francis? </em>But he is too deep in this now, taking more of Francis into his mouth and hollowing his cheeks with each up-stroke, rutting desperately against his own hand like a dog.  It is not long before he suspects Francis is close - from the way his member thickens, the pulse of it in his hand.</p><p>“I’m going to- Please-” Francis tugs weakly at his hair as if to move him away, but James is not a man to leave a job half-done.  He digs his fingers into Francis’s thigh and takes as much of him down as he can as the other man spends in his mouth finally, hips stuttering up. James swallows it down, salty as it is, rubbing more fiercely at himself.  </p><p>His eyes squeeze shut as he feels and hears Francis riding out his orgasm above him.  And then the stretch of awed silence.  “That was- “ Begins Francis, and James lets him fall from his mouth with a pant, fingers finally scrabbling for his own fly, easier to undo his own buttons which he is more practiced at working.  </p><p>“Oh, you’re - oh.” Francis sounds rather enchanted, to see him like this, and were he not so desperate for his own finish he might feel embarrassed at the scrutiny. </p><p>Instead he finds himself pressing his cheek desperately to Francis’s broad thigh, looking up to find the familiar features, the sheen of lips licked wet, blue fevered eyes ablaze with lantern light. An uncertain hand returns to his head, tender.  </p><p>“Yes, James- that’s it. That’s alright. Good man.” petting him like he is gentling a stallion, fingers traveling to stroke the line of his cheek, to probe the flutter of his pulse beneath his jaw.  It is not long before he finishes like that, with a muffled groan as Francis’s fingers work beneath the back of his collar, between stock and skin, Francis murmuring reassurance above him, James uttering only a strangled cry.<br/>
<br/>
There is a stretch of silence, after, because James simply can not think, his head pillowed in Francis’s lap, and Francis still petting at him tenderly. </p><p>He could stay there- <em> would </em>stay there- if that ache in his bones where they press to the wood beneath him was not beginning to return, now that there is not the haze of lust to soften it.  </p><p>Grudgingly he moves, to tuck himself away and pull a handkerchief from his pocket, cleaning his own spend from where it has streaked the floor.  Gods know what Jopson’s reaction would be to find such a thing on the floor of his Captain’s cabin, and he would joke about this to Francis if he did not already feel the strange melancholy and fogged mind to which he unaccustomed returning to him. He does back up his own flys briskly, by rote.</p><p>“James,” Francis begins as James begins next to help put Francis’s clothing back to rights, motioning for the man to stand and following him to his feet. It is - strangely intimate after what has just passed, to help tuck the shirts back in, to do up the buttons.  Francis looks almost more ashamed at these attentions than what preceded them.  “Thank you.”<br/>
<br/>
His lips twitch to a smirk.  “I trust that I have not made your illness worse, in some way?” He asks, straightening Francis’s bracers attentively before doing back up the waistcoat buttons he had pried open.</p><p>Francis shakes his head, mutely.  He is staring so intently at James, and he realizes that he has felt that weight of gaze before - has previously chalked it up always to derision, dismissal. He sees the gentleness there now, and the uncertainty.<br/>
<br/>
“No,” Francis says, reaching to pluck from James’ jacket what appears to be one of his own long dark hairs.  James catches the broad shaking hands in their retreat, arching a brow pointedly.  </p><p>Francis scoffs.  “Well, I- It has made me a bit light-headed, if you must know.”<br/>
<br/>
He is not sure if he should feel guilt for that, but he’d wager the fact Francis was able to <em> perform </em>at all means he will survive just fine, and so he smiles. If anything, it seems to have brought a hearty colour to the other man’s cheeks, the flush of vigour doing him some good. </p><p>“Then you needn’t stay standing on my account. I- Suppose I’ve been here long enough. I should return to <em> Erebus </em>.” </p><p>He tries to release Francis’s hands but finds himself held fast, squeezed gently.  “Must you?”<br/>
He is surprised at the tender entreaty in the words.  </p><p>“The men will wonder, Francis, if they wake to find their Captain gone, last sighted heading for <em> Terror </em> with no real explanation.” Might think him dead, for one, though even an oblique mention of the creature is too morbid for him to voice now.  “What would you do with me, have me stay in your berth?”<br/>
<br/>
He means it in jest but regrets it immediately for the guarded hurt that flicks across Francis’s features, releasing James’ hands.  “There are plenty of empty bunks on <em> Terror </em> , at the moment.” <br/>
<br/>
James lips part.  “I did not mean-” he grasps Francis’s arm. “I would stay, if I felt I could.  In whatever capacity you would have me here, I would stay.”  He is not sure if this is an over-extension, and rather than speak further he steps forward and presses a gentle kiss to Francis’s cheek and pressing his arm, wishing he did feel he could linger.  </p><p>There is much still to say, but he has exhausted his courage for the night.  Already doubts niggle at him at how much of this familiarity Francis would have allowed, were he completely himself. </p><p>So he takes his leave, and only pauses briefly at the door when Francis says softly, “Good Night, James.”</p><p>“Good Night, Francis.”<br/>
<br/>
There will be time for more later, he thinks. After Carnivale, after the announcement about leaving the ships, when Francis is whole again.<br/>
<br/>
Time and ice seem to be all they have, now.</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Yes, I expect there will be more set in this series.</p><p>Titles in this series are from the song <i>True Dark</i> by Murder By Death, which gives me big Fitzier vibes and is in general a wonderful band I recommend to anyone who will listen.</p><p>A lyric from Francis, re Sir John:<br/><i>There's nothing in this world you can say<br/>That will make me believe<br/>I should follow some fool off a cliff<br/>Just cause he's in the lead</i></p></blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>